Holding Out: Returning Home Book 4

by Serena Bell

“Ah,” she said, with a huge smile. “Right this way.”

  She wrapped his purchase in a pink gift bag stuffed with pink tissue paper.

  “Sorry about the packaging—” she said.

  Griff shrugged. “Real men don’t mind pink tissue paper.”

  Her laughter followed him out of the store.

  His last stop was Ocean Front Market, where he grabbed a large box of condoms. He had some in his room, but—

  Well, he felt like she deserved a freshly opened box. No need to make her think about the women who’d come before her.

  The truth was, none of the women who’d come before Becca had been noteworthy, with the exception of Marina. And definitely no one since then. He hadn’t wanted anyone to be noteworthy, because—

  Well, because it still hurt. Not just the night he had come home to find Marina gone, but the other memories. The good ones. The first night after they’d bought the house, when they’d picnicked on the kitchen floor, sharing a pizza and passing a bottle of wine back and forth, laughing and kissing. Making love right there on the floor, and declaring the new house christened.

  He had felt so damn lucky. Like a guy who’d woken up from a childhood dream to find the dream was real—he wasn’t just playing house, but living it. He had a place to call his own, a beautiful wife who reached for him at night, fucking bacon and eggs on Sunday mornings. He’d done nothing to deserve any of it, but it was his to keep.

  And then it wasn’t.

  He realized he was standing stock still in the middle of the grocery aisle, staring at the condom display. And goddammit, why did Marina have the power to do that to him?

  He realized his free hand was wrapped in a fist and made himself unclench it.

  This thing with Becca had nothing to do with what had happened with Marina. This was just fun. After all, they’d agreed on the rules so it couldn’t get messy, couldn’t get serious.

  He put the big box back on the shelf and took a pack of three instead.

  Just in case he needed a reminder.

  10

  “What do you think?”

  Becca stepped out of the dressing room to show Jenina the dress she was trying on. It was cornflower blue with a halter neckline that cut away from her shoulders. It fell barely to mid-thigh in gauzy layers. Becca twirled, then quickly dropped her hands to push the dress back down over her ass.

  “Wow,” Jenina said. “That is beautiful. And really hot on you.” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you wearing under it?”

  “A bra? And panties?”

  “Which bra and panties?”

  “Does it matter? He’s a sure thing.”

  “Oh, it matters. He’s only a sure thing until he lifts that hem up to reveal your favorite cat-print cotton boy shorts. You need to make sure he wants seconds.”

  “He won’t want seconds. We made a deal. Rules. One and done. And shit—the first rule of Operation V-Card is, there is no Operation V-Card, so total cone of silence, Jenina. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

  Jenina zipped her lips. Then promptly unzipped them. “Honey. If it’s even remotely decent sex, it’s not going to be one and done. And believe me, even if you don’t want seconds, you want him to want seconds. You want all the power to be in your hands. You want him begging for more. Then you can turn on your stiletto heel and walk out.”

  Becca squinted at that. She’d never worn a stiletto heel in her life. “That’s not going to happen. Griff can have any woman he wants, and he doesn’t want Nate to know there’s anything going on between us, so he’s going to stick to the rules.”

  “Unless you make it impossible for him.”

  “How would I do that?”

  The words had spilled out of her mouth without her meaning to say them aloud. She didn’t want to leave him begging for more.

  Did she?

  “Let’s buy the dress,” Jenina said. “Then we’re going shoe shopping and lingerie shopping.”

  Ten minutes later they were in the shoe store, and Jenina had three pairs of stiletto sandals hanging over her fingers.

  “Can I help you with those?” the saleswoman asked.

  “They’re for her,” Jenina said. “She needs to make a guy beg.”

  The saleswoman’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She was a dark-haired woman with white roots—Becca guessed she was pushing sixty. “Um, what size?” she asked.

  “Eight,” Becca said.

  The saleswoman brought out all three pairs and began opening boxes and pulling cardboard and tissue paper out of the sandals. The first pair Becca tried on were made up of a million spaghetti-thin silver straps, crisscrossed back and forth over each other. She admired her foot in the sandal, then stood and fell right back into her seat.

  “I’m not going to be able to walk in these,” she said.

  “You’re not going to be walking,” Jenina said. “You’re going to be hooking your ankles around his back.”

  The saleswoman coughed and looked away.

  “You’re evil,” Becca mouthed at Jenina.

  “I’m pragmatic.”

  Becca was pragmatic, too, or at least she’d always thought she was. But even though she needed to unfasten the sandals, take them off, and return them to the box so she could try on something more practical, she couldn’t make herself do it. She kept thinking of what Jenina had said, and the thought of Griff between her thighs and the sandals digging into Griff’s ass—

  New Becca, among other things, was apparently a lot more good-to-go than Old Becca. She was all hooray about the stiletto sex.

  The other thing she couldn’t stop thinking about was the look on Griff’s face when he saw the sandals. Saw her in the sandals. Saw the length of her legs, her ankles crisscrossed with those impossibly slim straps.

  She wanted him to give her that look again, the one he’d given her just briefly when he’d found out she was a virgin. Like she was a meal he was about to ravage—with gusto.

  “I’ll take these,” she told the saleswoman.

  Lingerie was easier, mainly because she didn’t have to show it to Jenina, who was trying on practical panties—her phrase—in the next dressing room.

  The panties Becca had on were not practical. Not at all. They were shimmery silver and barely there. If she weren’t wearing the obligatory underwear-under-the-underwear, she would be able to see herself through them. The thought made her extra glad she’d indulged in some ladyscaping earlier this morning—something she did not feel the need to share with Jenina, who would have put too much weight on it. She wasn’t trying to impress Griff or anything. She just liked things trim and tidy.

  There was a matching bra. Her nipples stood at attention beneath it. She stared at herself in the mirror. He’d seen a lot of breasts. There was no reason hers should impress him. And Jenina’s assertions aside, this wasn’t about impressing him.

  Jondalar would tell her that her breasts were the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen, and he’d mean it.

  It was a damn good thing she was going to lose her virginity so she could stop having Jondalar fantasies and move on with her life.

  Her hand rose, without her consciously deciding to do it, to brush over the sheer lace of her bra and the hard tip of her nipple. She shivered. And did it again. Then the other.

  Wow. So, there was that.

  It wasn’t like she’d never engaged in a little . . . self-love . . . but it was usually the quick and efficient Hitachi Magic Wand kind of thing. This slow burn sensuality thing that Griff had started—

  Whole different ball of hot melting wax.

  Old Becca gave New Becca the side-eye. New Becca gave Old Becca the finger and pinched a nipple. Sensation rolled down her belly, arrowed to her clit.

  She’d be ready for him by the time Saturday rolled around, that was for sure.

  11

  I’m on my way, Griff texted.

  Holy shit, this did feel like Christmas. Like when you know you’re the first one awa
ke in the house, and there’s all that treasure downstairs, just waiting for you to tear the shiny paper off.

  Except in this case, the treasure was Becca’s body and the shiny paper was her clothes. And the fantasies he was having were definitely not the stuff of a family-friendly Hallmark flick.

  He drove up 101, past the tourist helicopter ride, surf shops, pizza parlors, pot dispensaries, dive bars. Nestled between the storefronts were small houses, some still impeccably maintained, others falling to shit. He passed his favorite sign of all time: I’d Crack That Chiropractic, with the illustration of a woman whose back was bent at a spine-endangering angle. Best advertisement ever for chiropractic services. Sign him right up.

  Griff’s phone buzzed. He broke all his own rules and peered down at the screen.

  I’m ready for you.

  Well, holy fuck, that had just taken him from calmly puttering down the highway to primed to the teeth.

  He picked up the phone. Traffic wasn’t too bad. “Send a message to Becca Drake,” he instructed Siri.

  “What do you want to say to Becca?”

  She was so cooperative, that Siri. He wondered how many nerdy high school boys were in love with her.

  “‘You’re going to need to explain what you mean by that,’” Griff dictated.

  “Your message to Becca Drake says You’re going to need to explain what you mean by that. Ready to send it?”

  “Yes.”

  He set the phone down, jazzed to the gills. He couldn’t wait to see what she’d text back.

  Highway 101’s flotsam gave way to estuary and farmland, then to a stretch of big box stores, the land all jagged geometries, and Griff stopped at the light in front of a Fred Meyers. Grabbed his phone. She’d texted back, which ratcheted his heart rate up.

  You’ll see when you get here.

  Give me a hint, he tapped.

  You’ll like what I’m wearing.

  Oh, now. He would. He was pretty sure of that, no matter what it was. I still have four hours of driving, Becca.

  The light turned. Goddammit, that was the last light before the bridge, wasn’t it? Grudgingly, he pulled forward and accelerated.

  Buzz.

  He wasn’t going to look.

  He wasn’t going to look.

  He grabbed his phone.

  That will give you plenty of time to get ready, too.

  The only body part he needed for the job crowed, I’m ready!

  “Hey Siri, text Becca Drake, ‘I don’t need time to get ready for you, gorgeous.’”

  Just past the last of the strip was one of the wildest and most beautiful sights Griff knew, the place where the Columbia River emptied itself into the Pacific, freshwater mingling with salt, flowing to the horizon in what felt like every direction. He crossed the bridge, circled the roundabout, and came into Astoria.

  A weight settled in his stomach. This—up on the hill to his right—was where he had once lived with Marina. He couldn’t see it from here, but somewhere up there was the house that he had come home to, only to find it empty and her gone. She’d gotten that house in the divorce—he hadn’t wanted it—and she lived there now with her boyfriend, Scott.

  Griff’s stuff was still in the basement of that house. Marina had asked him to come get it, but he hadn’t been up to seeing her, or the house, or—most of all—her and fucking Scott living happily together. So she’d told him she’d keep his things there until he was ready to grab them.

  Pretty decent of her, actually. His stuff had been sitting there ever since, although a couple of weeks ago he’d gotten an email from her asking him to finally get the job over with—she and Scott needed the basement back. His stomach had clenched in knots and he’d deleted the email.

  He turned onto the Astoria-Megler Bridge. The water rolled out on either side of him, blue-gray and mottled with brown at the shallower spots. Fucking beautiful. That and the hills on the other side of the water, sprawling and nearly unspoiled. It always put him in a great mood. Screw Marina and her basement and his sad leftover shit, he was on his way to have a good time—and more to the point, give someone else a really good time—tonight.

  He had to grin at that.

  The Entering Washington sign reminded him of a childhood ritual, and he hummed, “Roll on, Columbia, roll on,” an old Arlo Guthrie song he and his family had always sung when they crossed the Columbia River.

  He turned off the bridge and—

  Buzz.

  He pulled over at the Dismal Nitch rest area—no joke, that was really a place. And he was glad he’d done so, because she’d sent him an essay.

  No pressure or anything, but you should know that when I was a teenager, I read this book called The Valley of Horses. It’s set in prehistoric times, and the hero initiates the heroine into the First Rites of Pleasure. He was a total pro. Plus he had a schlong so big that all the women were afraid they wouldn’t be able to fit it.

  He laughed, then frowned. You’re not scared, are you?

  No!

  He was about to text her back to say, Good, you have nothing to be scared of, when the three dots appeared again.

  Okay, maybe a tiny bit. I did try to have sex with this one guy and it didn’t, um, *work*.

  He was instantly pissed at whoever that asshole was. Some noob like CJ, probably, more intent on notching a bedpost and claiming a conquest than making it good for his partner.

  You should have told me that.

  So you could have backed out?

  She really had no idea who she was dealing with. No, doofus, so I could plan on spending an extra-long time making you ready.

  Long, long silence. He almost started the truck, but just as he reached out his hand to turn the key in the ignition, his phone buzzed again.

  I told you, I am ready.

  Do me a favor, okay? Go online and find something really sexy.

  Like porn?

  Doesn’t have to be porn. You have a Kindle?

  Yeah.

  Get that book. The one you used to read when you were a kid. Read the good parts, so when I get there, you can tell me if I’m forgetting anything. And feel free to warm up. I won’t be angry. Just don’t—

  He became suddenly conscious that his dick was right-angled and ferociously hard. Not okay. He straightened himself inside his jeans, looking around first to make sure no one was in his line of sight. Last thing he needed was to get arrested for perving in Dismal Nitch.

  —don’t come.

  No danger of that. I have to work at it. Hope you’re okay with a challenge.

  Griff would not have pegged himself as a man who got off on that particular challenge, but his dick disagreed. He’d be fine if it took hours to get her there, because he was going to love every last freaking minute of it.

  Tonight it won’t be work for you. I promise.

  I like sexting with you.

  I like sexting with you, too, honey. But I’ve got to put the phone down and drive now or I’ll never get to the really good part.

  Put the fucking phone down and fucking drive.

  He laughed out loud.

  He put the phone down. But it took him a few minutes before he felt like he was safe to pull back out on the road. And the drive to Seattle felt like it was a hundred fucking years long.

  12

  The doorbell rang. Jenina, thankfully, had agreed to make herself scarce, so Becca didn’t have to try to figure out whether she should play coy and let Jenina answer or make a grand entrance.

  She took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

  The man standing there was so good-looking he took her breath away. He was wearing gray dress pants that clung to his thighs and revealed just enough about his size to suggest that he could give Jondalar a run for his money. He’d paired them with a white Oxford button-down—nothing fancy, but the way the shirt fit across his chest and shoulders made her want to yank it open and send buttons flying. Maybe she’d do that later. The nice thing about a one-and-done situatio
n was that it didn’t matter—despite what Jenina had said—if you did something outrageous or embarrassing.

  She finished her appraisal and realized he was doing one of his own. She could feel his gaze as it traveled over her body, taking in her bare shoulders, the curve of her breasts, the short flippy hem of her dress, the long expanse of bare thigh and calf, and the sandals. When his eyes reached the sandals, they flicked back to her face.

  “You are forbidden to take those shoes off until I tell you to,” he said mildly.

  Oh. That was sexy.

  “You look unbelievably hot, Becca.”

  Even if he was saying it because she’d made him feel competitive with a fictional character, she didn’t really care. It still felt like a caress, like he’d reached out and run an admiring hand down her body.

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  She was about to turn and reach for her clutch, which she’d set on a table in the hall, when he took a step forward, reached out, slid his hand up her neck, threaded his fingers into her hair, pulled her forward, and kissed her. She let out a gasp, half surprise and half pleasure, and he groaned and nipped her lip, then licked it. His mouth was warm and certain, the perfect amount of pressure. His tongue made another exploration of her lower lip, teased her open, and stroked her expertly, making her think about what else she’d like him to do with it. Her body, which had been primed from a week of anticipation and several hours of Valley of Horses—she was nothing if not obedient—tightened all the way down the front, a subtle but very real tug.

  “That’s it,” he urged, pulling her closer so their bodies were lined up. The feel of his washboard abs against the curve of her belly intensified the tug. Maybe she’d done too much priming. Maybe she wasn’t a challenge at all. Maybe she was going to start humping his leg.

  As if he’d read her mind, he slid his thigh between hers and his tongue back into her mouth, and she squeezed her legs together, pressing her needy body against thick muscle. He made a sound that was stuck somewhere between groan and grunt and grabbed her ass with both hands. Then abruptly, he let her go and stepped away.